


Promise Made Out of Fierce Day

by vidocqsociety



Series: Pay for the Crime of Feeling [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Movie, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vidocqsociety/pseuds/vidocqsociety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a first time for everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't intend to write a continuation to [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/483406), but I don't intend for a lot of things to happen. C'est la vie, as they say.

"Again."

Clint sighs. He's lying flat on his back on a gym mat that smells strongly of feet, having had his ass handed to him again by Coulson. The same Coulson who _dabs_ at the corners of his mouth with his napkin like he's a fucking Victorian lady and listens to shit like Glenn Miller-- _for fun_.

Embarrassing.

Clint sits up, trying not to wince at the twinge in his back. "Why, so you can cheat again?" There's no bite to it. He's given up trying, since both he and Coulson know it's a lie.

"I don't know what you think goes on out there, but there aren't any rules." Coulson throws him a water bottle. Clint downs half of it easily. "No rules, no cheating."

"How convenient for you."

"I can't help that you're a sore loser."

"I'm not a loser," Clint grumbles, getting up. "Just sore."

"You're not always going to have a bow or a gun," Coulson says matter-of-factly. "You're going to have to learn to throw some punches."

"I can throw a punch."

"One," Coulson agrees. "But not one good enough where you don't need to throw another."

Clint grunts in frustration. He takes a run at Coulson, who spins out of the way and kicks Clint in the back of the knee, just hard enough for his leg to buckle and head face first into the mat.

"Sir?" Clint rolls over. "This isn't fun anymore."

"Good." Coulson stands over him, amused. "You're learning."

Coulson beats him up a few more times, but the bouts go longer each time. He seems to approve of Clint's progress. Clint drains his water bottle and grabs his towel. "So how are the showers here?"

"Better than you're used to."

"That would be a hose, sir." Clint swings around. "You coming?" He plays up the flirtiness to hide the fact that he was actually sort of hopeful. Because having the shit kicked out of him for the past three hours wouldn't be so bad if he got to at least see Coulson in a towel.

"Barton, there is no way in hell I would willingly use those showers."

"So you're just going to spend the rest of the day smelling like sweat?" On second thought, he could live with that.

"That would imply I broke a sweat."

"That's hurtful, sir."

"I would advise you to get used to that."

"Yes, sir."

The one side of Coulson's mouth twitches up. Pride blooms in Clint's chest. "Scrub hard," Coulson says, walking away. "The smell of shame's hard to get out."

Clint has enough self-respect to wait until he gets to the locker room to laugh.

*

The range is different than the gym. The range feels comfortable. Immediately, Clint knows this is going to be the place he feels most at home.

Coulson opens up a large black case and turns it towards Clint. "Best on the market. Unmodified."

Clint picks it up. Lightweight, laser scope, nice balance. "Simple."

"SHIELD doesn't really have experience with archery," Coulson explains. "You're sort of the prototype. Whatever you need, we'll modify."

"I like simple." His fingers start to itch. "Got anything for me to shoot?"

Coulson nods to a long table. On it are groups of arrows. "R&D had some fun."

"I can tell." Clint picks up what looks like a basic arrow.

"Adamantium tip," Coulson tells him.

"Nice." Clint takes his place at the firing line, draws his bow, and fires. It sings through the air and hits the target dead center. Of course. "What else you got for me?"

They spend the rest of the afternoon testing out arrows (the acid ones were garbage, leaking all over the place, and the exploding ones were far too much fun to Clint for Coulson's comfort) and coming up with modifications for his bow ("'Foldy'?" Coulson asks, writing it down. "You mean you would like the bow to have the ability to fold." Clint replies, "What I said: make it foldy."). 

*

Clint is studying the menu of an out-of-the-way diner. Not that he cared what was put in front of him. Between what he ate at the circus and what he ate now, Clint learned not be picky about food. No, his concern was the location: someplace remote, someplace quiet, someplace unknown.

He flips to the breakfast menu. Pancakes might be nice.

He isn't surprised in the least when Coulson slides in across from him--he doesn't even look up. Apparently he got here before Clint, as he brought with him a plate of waffles and coffee.

Something nudges his foot. "Trying to play footsie with me, sir?"

"Trying to kick you. Apparently I missed."

Clint gave his menu a skeptical look. Phil Coulson did not miss. "Why would you want to kick me?"

"Off-grid for two hours? You're lucky that's all I tried to do."

"I missed my sub stop."

They sit in silence a moment. The only sound between the two of them is Coulson's cutlery hitting his plate.

He decides he can't take the silence anymore. "So." Clint finally looks up. He folds his hands on top of the table and gives Coulson the biggest shit-eating grin he can muster. "What can I do for you?"

"How do you feel about Belarus?"

"I feel like it would be very cold this time of year, sir."

"Then get a sweater. We're going."

He tries not to sound too petulant when he asks, "Do I have to?"

Coulson dabs at his mouth (Clint focuses on this because it is not badass and therefore unbecoming of a SHIELD agent, not because it's a little bit adorable). "Are you saying no?"

"Can I?" He tries to make the question sound sarcastic, but Coulson knows that it isn't. Because Coulson always knows exactly what Clint is trying to say.

"I would advise against it." That was why agents liked to have Coulson as a handler. He never _handled_ them. He gave them their options, what the consequences might be, and left them to make their own choices. Nine times out of ten, they went with Coulson, because he knew what he was talking about.

Knowing this, of course, did not change Clint's mind in the slightest. "Then yes. I'm saying no."

"Okay."

"Seriously?" It couldn't have been _that_ easy.

"Seriously," Coulson repeats. "You can join Agent Blake on surveillance."

Of course. "That is just cruel."

"Those are your options."

Surveillance meant The Van. There wasn't any specific van that was The Van. It was all of them: beat-up, cramped, usually of the utility company variety. Something large enough on the inside to hold equpment (and a couple of cranky agents) and inconspicuous on the outside to disappear into the background.

Clint hated The Van. And he hated Blake. Both were stuffy and smelled like stale coffee. "I'd rather eat glass."

"Then you'll be taking the assignment."

"Sir." He can't quite bring himself to tell Coulson 'yes'. Or to be mad at him.

"Excellent. We report at 0900 tomorrow."

"Anything else?"

"Try the waffles."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where things get messy.
> 
> PS: I've never been to Belarus, so in the grand tradition of writing, I made some shit up. Work with me.

Clint hunches against the biting winter breeze as Coulson yells at the person who was supposed to be renting them a car. Apparently it's not going so well if Coulson's face is any indicator. The guy probably tried to dick him over on the price. Clint huffs a laugh into his scarf. Yeah. That'll end well.

To occupy himself, he runs over the job in his head. It's a simple extraction: find the target (Andrej Vaytsiushkevich, better known as The Knife: a mob boss who was less into the business aspect of mob life and more into the mindless killing part) and remove him to a country that has an extradition policy with the US so they can legally drag his ass back for "questioning." Textbook.

Except nothing with SHIELD is ever textbook. Something (or someone) usually came along to screw it all to hell.

Evidently, the first someone is the car guy.

Coulson sighs, and says something in Belarusian (he knows it's that and not Russian, which he's pretty good at), and he says it very seriously. The man does a decent impresson of a fish (mouth open, mouth closed, mouth open) before digging in his pocket and fishing out a set of keys. He promptly hands it over to Coulson, who takes them without bothering to hide his extreme annoyance. "Let's go, Barton."

Clint follows Coulson to a nice but inconspicuous-looking car. They get in, and Clint immediately starts fiddling with the temperature controls. He cranks the heat all the way up.

"Cold, Barton?"

"Like you aren't?"

"Not particularly."

"Mm." Clint thinks a moment. "You seem like a New Englander."

"Do I?"

"I'm thinking Vermont."

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, you're a fan of maple syrup, for one."

"Barton, don't be an idiot."

"Right."

" _Everyone_ likes maple syrup."

Clint's head whips around in shock while Coulson's face remains annoyingly neutral. And then, just the tiniest twitch of his lip. And Clint starts laughing.

*

Clint peers through the blinds again. Behind him, he can hear Coulson methodically cleaning his gun. "Tell me how this is better than the Van again?"

"I'm not Blake?"

Clint conceeds. "This room smells like..."

"Death."

"Like _what_?"

Coulson nods to the far wall. "Blood spatter. Close range. Execution killing."

Clint examines the busy wallpaper. Sure enough, there's a faded spot on the wall, hidden in the pattern. "Huh."

"I'm guessing the clean-up crew took their time showing up."

"How did you see that?"

"I was looking for it."

"You usually on the look-out for blood stains?"

"Force of habit." Coulson gives him a rare half-grin. "You'll get it, too."

"That's comforting."

"What's the first thing you look at in a location?"

"Food." Which wasn't exactly a lie. Even now, even after living at SHIELD with it's well-stocked cafeteria and the vending machines in the break rooms, he still always scoped out if and where there was food. It was his own force of habit.

"I trained you better than that."

"Vantage points. Eyelines. Where I can make the best shot."

"And I look for everything else."

"Like what?" Clint's genuinely curious now. He's never really had time to sit down at _talk_ with Coulson. Even if it's about work stuff.

"What a room was used for--like that." He nods to the stains again. "The walls aren't thick, so either no one cares about gunfire or they're too scared to say anything. It's a corner room, which allows for a wider view of the street. Monitor the comings and goings--that's why you like it."

"Like's a strong word."

"You find it comforable, then." Coulson finishes putting his gun back together. "You have a cowboy complex, Barton. You don't like your back to the door."

"It's not a bad thing, you know," Clint says, suddenly defensive. "Watching your back. There's always someone waiting to stab you there."

"I never said it was a bad trait," Coulson replies calmly. "It's a smart one."

Clint's been called a lot of things--he can't remember 'smart 'being on the list. "Thanks."

"SHIELD does not hire idiots. And I cetainly don't take them on as handler."

"Careful, sir. I might start thinking you like me."

Coulson smiles, genuinely, and Clint's heart swells a little bit. "Can't have that now, can we?"

*

Day two and the room has not gotten any homier. In fact, Clint is damn near climbing the walls. He looks out the windows, paces around the room, and then goes back to the windows. Coulson is sat in the rickety chair, calm as you like, reading, of all things, a Miss Marple mystery.

"You know whodunit yet?"

"The cousin."

"Not the butler?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"I've read this before."

"Cheater."

"What did I tell you about cheating?"

Clint smirks, and turns back to the windows. A man stands down at the corner, on his phone. He looks angry. He also looked familiar. "Let me see that picture again."

Coulson hands him a grainy black-and-white surveillance shot of Vaytsiushkevich. Clint glances at it, and then back at the man on the corner. "That's him." 

Coulson's up and at the window immediately, hand absently resting on Clint's shoulder. "You sure?" 

"Positive." 

"Even when he's that far away?" There's no doubt in Coulson's voice. He sounds... impressed. Clint doesn't quite know what to do with that.

"Yeah."

Coulson gives a curt nod. He grabs the walkie-talkie from the bedside table. "We have visual, northwest corner. Confirm."

The walkie-talkie crackes, and a ground agent's voice comes over. "Copy. Northwest corner. Confirmed. That's our guy."

"Proceeding to engage." Coulson lowers the walkie-talkie. "Whenever you have a shot... take it."

Clint grabs his bow from the open case on the floor and slings his quiver over his back. "Got it." He opens the window carefully, trying not to make too much noise. He settles an arrow into the bow, lines up the shot, and--

Gunshots. Two of them, right through the window. They miss both of them, but they succeed in making Clint miss the shot. The arrow goes flying through the air and crashes into a nearby dumpster with a clang. Vaytsiushkevich looks up to the source, sees a seething Clint still clutching his bow, and runs.

"TARGET ON THE MOVE." Voices start screaming through the walkie-talkies, confused and chaotic. Coulson heads to the street while Clint remains to snipe who he can in the madness below.

For about two minutes, things appear to be okay. Clint picks off a couple of the bigger hired guns. The ground agents have reorganized and are now sweeping through the streets with deadly efficiency. Clint draws another arrow.

The door bursts open, and there stands a man with a gun pointed right at him. Clint whips around and fires, catching him in the shoulder. He jerks backwards, gun firing into the ceiling. Clint boots him out of the way as he scrambles into the hallway.

Gunfire. Everywhere, bullets flying and people yelling. He has a few arrows left in his quiver. Not ideal, but something's better than nothing. He barges down the hall.

A few of the gunmen he deals with easily. Coulson's training was good. He takes out the one guarding the staircase at the end of the hall with a well-placed arrow. He charges down the stairs and crashes into a wall of a man. Clint scrambles, trying to grab an arrow, but the guy snatches his bow and snaps it over his knee.

Clint stands there, floating in a haze of uncertainty. He's snapped out of it pretty quickly by a punch to the jaw. He stumbles back and shakes his head to clear it. "Okay," he says slowly. "Bring it."

The guy barrels towards him. Clint dodges out of the way, and sends one booted foot to the back of the guy's knee. The thug doesn't faceplant, like Clint did when Coulson pulled the same move on him, but it sends him to his knees. It's enough to give him time.

Bow broken, all he has are his arrows. He grabs for one and pulls back an adamantium-tipped one--that'll work.

The thug scrambles to his feet and lunges for him. Clint goes for the throat. Too late, he sees it: a flash of silver, and suddenly there's a searing pain in his side. He keeps going, and stabs an arrow through the guy's windpipe. His attacker lets go, clutching at his throat. Clint knows he'll cause more damage in his panicked attempts to remove the arrow. He leaves him to it, and runs.

Coulson. He has to find Coulson. That's the thing he needs to focus on--keep his thoughts away from the knife wound between his ribs. 

On the street, Clint can hear Coulson yelling orders at people. More gunfire. He stumbles to the front door and collapses into it. It swings open, and Clint finds himself on the sidewalk.

Not elegant, but effective. He gets to his feet and heads towards Coulson's voice.

"Jesus, Barton, what the hell happened to you?"

Behind Coulson, a gun cocks. Clint lunges forward, half-collapsing on top of Coulson, and grabs his gun. He shoves Coulson out of the way. They fire at the same time. Clint's shot finds its mark, right in the chest. The goon's bullet nicks Clint in the ear. He jerks to the side, sending himself off-balance, and drops. Coulson manages to catch him, and drags him behind the van. Clint finally gives up, and sprawls on the ground. Coulson's got his hand over Clint's stab wound. "Barton."

Clint coughs, trying not to swallow the blood that was oozing from his mouth.

"Clint." His voice is soft. His eyes are anxious.

"So we're on a first name basis now? Phil?" Clint wheezes, trying to sound cool. Instead he just sounds like he's getting over bronchitis. Decidedly _not_ cool. He manages to get himself up on all fours with a groan. He spits, more blood than saliva, and sits back on his heels. "That'll be fun in the office." He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I'm pulling you out. You need medical--"

"M'fine," he says.

"No you aren't."

"Not fine," Clint agrees begrudingly. "But I'm pissed off, and this guy's gonna pay for it."

Coulson considers him carefully. "You need stitches." He helps Clint to his feet and together they hobble to the back of the van. It's empty.

"Where's Blake?"

"Don't know," Coulson says, practically shoving Clint inside. "Don't care." He slams the door behind him and starts digging through a box left on the front seat. He pulls back a small black case. "Shirt off."

Clint, even while bleeding out, goes for humor: "Well, if I knew all I had to do was get stabbed--"

"Off." Coulson was absolutely serious. And something else. Clint has to think for a moment, but then he realizes: Coulson looks worried. About him.

Several emotions wage a war for dominance. He's touched that Coulson felt anything for him, let alone enough for him to cause such a fuss. And then he feels guilty, because the only reason Coulson felt that is because Clint is an idiot who didn't follow procedure. And then, the dreaded hope, blooming delicately, because if Coulson is panicky over him, then maybe...

Clint peels his shirt off, fabric clinging to the wound. Coulson cleans it up as best he can and starts stitching it shut.

"They teach you this in handler school?"

"SHIELD offers several level of first aid classes. I took advantage of them."

Clint winces as Coulson pulls the stitch tight. "Glad you did."

They sit in silence, Coulson working methodically and Clint trying not to whine in pain. The fighting outside is all but over.

"You know how much of a pain in the ass you are?" Coulson says finally.

"I've been told."

"Not enough."

"Actually, you'd be surprised--"

"If you're still pulling this kind of crap, then no. It hasn't been enough." Coulson ties off the suture. "It's not just you anymore, Clint. You have other people to think about."

Clint is not blind. He sees the worry in Coulson's expression. Something in Clint changes. Or maybe it already had, and he's just finally realizing it. Either way, he knows now: Coulson thinks of him as a friend.

And that's everything.

Clint swallows. "I'm sorry."

"I don't need you to be sorry. I need you to be careful."

"I will be." Clint catches Coulson's hand. "Phil. I promise."

Coulson stares back. His thumb sweeps down Clint's knuckles, just once. He nods. "Good." He lets go of his hand and settles in next to Clint, their backs against the wall of the van. "Good."

"So what now?"

"We sit here."

"Aren't you abandoning your post?"

"Observation," Coulson says. "You might have a head injury."

"I didn't get hit in the head."

"Do you want me to leave? Is that what this is?"

"No." It's Clint's way of making sure he doesn't. He swallows that explanation down and, for once, smartly says nothing. 

Maybe Coulson gets that, though, because he shifts in such a way that his shoulder is now in the perfect position for Clint to rest his head against it. So he does. "Get some sleep."

"I thought head injuries meant I had to stay awake?"

"So now you _have_ a head injury?"

"I just want to know what lie I'm telling who."

"You're not telling anyone anything. I'll handle it. That's my job."

"Yes, sir," he mumbles into Coulson's shoulder. Before he drifts off entirely, Clint thinks The Van isn't so bad after all.

*

"Anything you'd like to add?"

It's four days later. They're working on their report in Coulson's office. Coulson, of course, looks like his usual put-together self. Clint looks like a trainwreck. He's got bandages wrapped around his middle, a swath of gauze taped over his ear (the muffled sound was driving him nuts), and a boot on for the ankle he had no idea he had sprained.

"No," Clint replies. "I think it's been pretty well covered." Blake, of all people, had spotted Vaytsiushkevich headed into the sewer via the manhole near the van. He went after him, incapacitated him ("I am a trained agent," he said sourly at Clint's look of surprise). He had dragged him back to the van only to find Clint sound asleep and curled up practically in Coulson's lap, with Coulson working on a crossword puzzle in a paper he found jammed in between some equipment. Apparently, all he had to say to Blake was, "DeMille genre. Four letters."

"Fine. Sign it, and we're done here."

Clint signs it with his usual flourish. Coulson co-signs, and closes the folder. They sit across from each other. A thought that had planted itself back in Belarus and has overtaken his brain since bursts forth, without pretense: "About the interrogation--"

"Protocol is protocol."

"What if you just went out to get him water or something?"

"Security footage."

"Yeah, but that sort of stuff goes missing all the time--like the Nixon tapes!"

"That gap is eighteen minutes long."

"Please. I'm not asking for Andrej, and I'm not asking for eighteen minutes. Just five with the guy who stabbed me. I mean, come on, Phil." Clint pauses deliberately, waiting for Coulson to correct him, to tell him that what happened in Minsk stayed in Minsk, and was not to happen ever again, especially within SHIELD walls. But Coulson just sits there, waiting patiently for Clint to finish his thought. "He _stabbed_ me. You gotta give me something."

Coulson's eyes went to where he knew Clint's wound was. "You're going to owe me."

Clint tries not to sound too excited. "Like what?"

"I was thinking... waffles?"


End file.
